aved your own life by
transferring the doom to me."

He did not wait for further explanation, but walked rapidly from the
house; and after a thousand severe self-upbraidings, in a fit of
despair, took the road that led through Ashton Park to the miser's
dwelling.

After an hour's walk he came in sight of the wretched hovel. It was now
evening, and a faint light, shed from a rush candle, gleamed through the
broken apertures of the low casement. He paused upon the threshold of
this abode of want and misery, and for the first time in his life he
thought it had been well for him had he never left it. For some time he
continued knocking loudly at the door, without being able to gain
admittance; at, length, bolt after bolt was slowly withdrawn, and the
miser himself let him in.

"It is well, Grenard, that you are home at last," growled forth the
surly old man. "If you make a practice of staying out so late at night,
we shall both be murdered."

But when, on holding up the light, he discovered his mistake, and
recognised the features of his son, he demanded in an angry tone, "What
business he had with him?"

Anthony pushed past him, and entered the house.

"Father, I will tell you immediately--but I am tired and ill. I must sit
down."

Without regarding the old man's stern look of surprise and displeasure,
he advanced to the table, and sat down upon the empty bench which was
generally occupied by Grenard Pike, secretly rejoicing that that worthy
was not at home. The awkwardness and difficulty of his situation pressed
so painfully upon the young man, that for a few seconds he could not
utter a word. A cold perspiration bedewed his limbs, and his knees
trembled with agitation.

Stern and erect, the old man, still holding the light, stood before him,
and though he did not raise his head to meet the miser's glance, he felt
that the searching gaze from which he used to shrink when a boy was
riveted upon him.

Mark Hurdlestone was the first to break the awful silence.

"Well, sir! If you are ready to explain the cause of this extraordinary
visit, I am ready to listen to you. What do you want?"

"Your advice and aid," at length gasped forth the unhappy youth. "I have
acted very foolishly, and in an hour of great difficulty and danger, I
fling myself upon your mercy, and I beseech you not to turn a deaf ear
to my prayer."

Mark sat down in his high-backed chair, and placed the light upon the
table in such a manner as